


Johnlock Drabbles

by ariagrace, cuddleholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabbles, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, argument, not really but anyway, triggering themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-08 13:23:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1942737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariagrace/pseuds/ariagrace, https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddleholmes/pseuds/cuddleholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of freeform Johnlock fanfics updated randomly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Catalogued

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John underestimated how caring Sherlock could be when he wants to be. After a case gone wrong, a violent argument soon turns into a heartfelt confession.

Sherlock and John were fighting. Again. Second time this week, actually. And it’s only Wednesday. They usually fought over the stupidest things that could easily be avoided. The both of them never really wanted to fight, but somehow their heated, opinionated conversations were driven to that.

It was about a client this time. They came to Baker Street for help and somehow the subject went onto her recently deceased mother, who must have been close to her because she had burst into tears. Sherlock, being the jackass he was sometimes, dismissed the woman and claimed she was boring, like he usually did with clients he didn’t find interesting. He sounded a lot like Spock. He acted a lot like Spock, too. Always uncaring towards people and their emotions. Once the woman had left, John told him off, which got him a calculated justification in reply. Then it turned into World War 3 if it were to be judged in words, basically. You could probably hear them clearly from a few blocks away. After about 10 minutes of useless squabbling, John decided that enough was enough.

“You know what? You’re the most selfish, rude, and unnerving bastard I have ever met!” John threw his hands up in the air in frustration, muttering to himself. All Sherlock could do was stare blankly at him. He slowly blinked. He had no idea, did he? He had no idea how much he has done for him; no idea what he meant to him. The next thing Sherlock knew, he was unbuttoning his black dress shirt. John proceeded to look at him perplexed as Sherlock undid it completely and threw it to the ground and extended his arms out wide. He brought down every single defense he had so John could see him. Sherlock had never felt so vulnerable in his life.

Sherlock’s body was covered in bright pink scars. Every single one of them was different as they scattered all over his chiseled arms, back and torso. They stained his body like coloured dye to a white shirt. Some were large, some were small, all of them just as painful. He wanted John to take it all in, so he kept himself still, saying nothing. Moments passed as John’s pupils slowly dilated in shock, looking at him as if Sherlock were a wounded animal. Pity, empathy, sadness, a little anger even – as he took everything in.

“Go on, John. Look at me,” Sherlock said gently. “Look at all these scars. I can give you the precise date and place where I got each of them and catalogued it all to memory. I did it because it was the only thing I could do to keep myself sane and protect you.”

John’s fist clenched so tightly his knuckles became white, his breathing heavy. Who could have done this to him? John’s face reminded Sherlock of how he looked when Sherlock revealed himself to John after being dead for 2 years. John was trying so hard to keep his composure.

Sherlock must have suffered so much for him and he had no idea. He wished he’d known sooner. But knowing how secretive Sherlock was, John was surprised he even showed him this. He just wanted to walk up and hug him right away, but instead he cautiously edged closer to Sherlock with slow, calm footsteps until their bodies were inches apart. Sherlock felt John’s cool hand on his side as his fingers traced a half-faded scar he had gotten when he was being beaten in Serbia. The touch sent jolts of electricity through Sherlock’s spine.

“What did they do to you…” John mumbled.

“None of that matters, John. I couldn’t bear to see you get hurt because of me.” Sherlock replied. 

Sherlock was taken off-guard as John’s arms ended up around his neck as he was pulled into a tight embrace. He could feel how tense Sherlock was under his body. He really didn’t want to do what he just did. But eventually, Sherlock’s body had relaxed and his arms crept around his waist.

“I’m so sorry,” John whispered, squeezing Sherlock’s body tighter. They both stayed silent, relishing in each other’s body heat. It felt like they had been standing in each other’s arms for hours as Sherlock rubbed John’s back soothingly. What Sherlock said next took John by surprise.

 “I love you,” Sherlock said simply. Three words. The three most powerful words a person could say to someone. That moment would change both of their lives forever, for better or worse. Sherlock hoped it would be for the better; for years he’d been waiting for a moment like this and he didn’t want to waste it. Turns out, John had been waiting for him to say that. For years he’s wanted to not be a friend, but a lover. It’s just neither of them knew how to express it. Until now, that is. Sherlock could feel John smile a little.

“I love you, too.”

  
  



	2. Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John discovers how insecure Sherlock truly is. After a sudden outburst and a degrading encounter at a crime scene with Scotland Yard, he decides to make it up to him.

The flat was seemingly peaceful today. The light that was in the street illuminated the lounge room with a warm, calming aura as John sat at the dining table, eating breakfast whilst flicking through the newspaper. But John spoke way too soon. He heard the loud crash of glass shattering against tile followed by a loud protest coming from the kitchen. John rolled his eyes whilst he turned a page. Looks like Sherlock’s woken up and is at his experiments again, John thinks to himself as he reached for his mug and took a sip from his coffee. John looked from across the room to see what Sherlock was busy doing this time around. He was always at that bench, tinkering with something if he wasn’t busy with a case or playing his violin by the window. It looked like he had been tampering with several coloured liquids in beakers this time.

John wished Sherlock was a little more…normal. He always did things that were the complete opposite to what people usually do. People don’t usually blowtorch an eyeball in their kitchen, being an example. When the both of them were on a case Sherlock made everyone feel like a complete idiot, acting as if the smallest of things he had noticed as if they were written on the wall in large, bold letters for everyone to see. But they weren't, at least for people that weren't like him, anyway. Which is pretty much everyone. John wished he could tone it down, just a little. No matter how many times John would mention it, you could tell that it wasn't computing with Sherlock’s information superhighway. Either that or he was choosing to not listen or to absorb the information. Sherlock likes to keep his mind palace “free of disorderly and unnecessary information,” as he so logically puts it. Basically it’s his way of saying “I don’t care, fuck off.”

“Sherlock?” John asked as he looked over, irritation present in his voice. No response. Figured as much. He always shut people out when he was focused. But then again, he always would shut people out. For some reason, this only seemed to annoy John even more to the point that the next words that left his mouth took both him and Sherlock off-guard.

“Sherlock for God’s sake could you stop doing that and behave like a normal human being for once!?” John’s fist loudly connected to the wooden table, his voice increasing significantly in volume as his eyes fixated in a threatening glare. His eyes locked onto his husband like a scope on a sniper rifle, piercing Sherlock’s skin like a bullet.

There’s silence. Only a few moments, but to the both of them it felt like hours of them just…staring at each other. It was in those moments, when John wanted to recoil those words. He didn’t even mean them, they just left his lips out of frustration. John didn’t even realise he was saying until he saw Sherlock’s reaction. Sherlock had become stiller than a statue, his body ridged, his muscles tensed to the point that he was probably cutting off the blood supply to his limbs. John wasn't even sure if he was breathing. Eventually, Sherlock slowly turned and looked at John, his eyes dripping with pain, before he spoke.

“You’re…you’re the only person that hasn’t called me that.” Sherlock’s voice almost cracked, his voice strained. The pain that was present in Sherlock’s voice was almost indescribable. You could physically see him put up every single emotional defense that he had dropped for John, his facade slowly deteriorating like a crumbling wall as tears threatened to freely fall down his defined cheekbones.

It was amazing how much John could see in his eyes. From the way he looked, John could see that his words cut deeper than a blade to the chest, the more time he and Sherlock thought about it, the deeper it twisted. John began to feel a dull ache throb slowly in his chest, but no injury to meet it halfway. John had never seen his husband so shaken up in his life. It made him physically sick. He actually wanted to throw up from the silent, depressed ambiance that his husband emitted and the dagger-like words that left his tongue.

“I-” John began, but Sherlock had already sharply turned on his heels and started retreating to their bedroom. His soft, quickened footsteps caused his burgundy dressing gown to float gently behind him as John watched his husband rush down the hallway and disappear behind the door with a gentle click. John sighed, putting his elbows on his thighs so he could lean down to cup his face in his hands and think for a little while. He felt horrible for snapping at Sherlock like that. His heart physically ached. There must be something he could do to make up for it, but for now all John could do was stay hunched over, regretting his actions. He was disappointed in himself, he really was. But with all this happening, why did Sherlock take it to heart so much? It wasn’t that hurtful, was it? If anything it was more of a reality check than an insult. He can never seem to decipher Sherlock, no matter how long he’s known him. He’s always so sensitive about certain things. John hoped one day Sherlock would be more open and honest about his feelings. That is one of the things you’re supposed to do when you’re married, right? But Sherlock’s brain was hardwired a lot differently. John sighed heavily into his palms, running a hand through his hair.

As Sherlock had closed the door, the dam burst as he allowed his tears to freely fall down his face and onto the wooden floorboards. His fingers had coiled into a tight fist, his knuckles turning white as he leaned against the door. He felt weak. Not physically, but emotionally. It was as if someone had reached into his lungs and squeezed. He physically couldn't breathe; it was as if he was drowning. Eventually, he found the strength and took in a sharp breath before continuing to sob, his tailbone connecting with the ground as he slid down against the door. He wanted to cry out in pain, curse to the sky, at something, but he didn't want John to hear. He doesn't want John to see him like this. Not now, not ever. He needed to act strong. But he couldn't. Sherlock clutched his shins, pulling his legs towards him as if they were the only thing that was keeping above the water. His buoy of salvation. He sobbed quietly into his kneecaps, his tears staining his pant fabric, but he didn't care. He just wanted to suffer, at least for a little while. Quietly. Slowly. He basked in the feeling of suffocation. He just wanted to let go. To end it all. He eyed the letter opener that was in his desk drawer from across the room. Stab himself in the heart? Drive the blade into his wrist so he bled to death? He couldn't bring himself to do so, so he stayed put, his back still super-glued to the door. No, he can’t.

He had to stay alive.

For John.

\--

“Hello again, freak.” The sound of Donovan’s high heels clicked against the bitumen as she sauntered up to Sherlock in a casual manner, her arms crossed. Sherlock let out a mental sigh of annoyance.

“Where’s Lestrade?” Sherlock asked, ignoring the mocking tone which was always behind Donovan’s words. He just wanted to retrieve the necessary information and lock himself in his room so he could continue to sulk. In all honesty, Sherlock used to take offence to her words, but he’s become so accustomed to being bullied by everyone in The Yard besides Lestrade that he didn’t even care anymore. Sally nudged her head towards Greg, who was engaged in conversation with John by his silver BMW that was parked nearby in the sea of flashing lights.

“He’s over there,” Donovan replied. She continued to stare him down, her arms remaining crossed.

“Don’t you have a job to do?” Sherlock mumbled to himself. He didn’t have time for her mocking antics today just like every other time, so he excused himself by brushing past her and heading toward the Detective Inspector.

“Sherlock, glad you could make it.” Lestrade acknowledged him with a slight nod of his head while Sherlock walked up to the two of them. As Sherlock stood by the two men, there had been a slight awkward silence hanging in the air. Sherlock wondered if they were talking about him. Probably, it wouldn't have been surprising. Eventually, much to Sherlock’s relief, Lestrade had broken the silence short by dropping his crossed arms and pushing himself off the bonnet of his car. He gestured for Sherlock and John to walk with him with a wave of his hand as he briskly trudged down the path and into the house that swarmed with officers and paramedics. Sherlock noticed the patronising and mocking looks that people from The Yard were giving him as he followed behind. It was going to be one of those days, wasn't it?

Sherlock had been watched by John, Donovan and Lestrade as he examined the victim’s corpse that was spread out on the bedroom floor. Lestrade leaned against the wall, his legs crossed at his ankles. John was standing in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, occasionally shifting his feet or doing something, he could never seem to keep still for some reason. Donovan was probably the closest person to Sherlock, her hands still in her trademark crossed state. She always stuck to Sherlock like superglue so he could find things that he did to make fun of. Either that or pushed her already old insults further. Thankfully, Anderson was on leave so Sherlock didn't have to deal with both him and Donovan jeering at him.

“I wonder what it’s like, being Sherlock Holmes,” Donovan’s voice broke the comfortable silence. She sounded as if she was thinking out loud. Sherlock was going to ignore her as always as she continued. “You know, being extra smart and all. I bet you like it, freak.” She sneered at the back of Sherlock’s head. This made John’s eyebrows lift as he trained his eyes on the Detective Sargent. Lestrade was practically glaring at her as if he was trying to silently tell her to shut up. Sherlock shifted his body, shutting his magnifying glass as he sat on his knees, not bothering to look back and face her.

“’Being Sherlock Holmes?’ You’d be surprised.”

\--

“What did you mean by that?” John asked. Sherlock shifted his eyes, but didn't move his head as his hands were pressed together and resting against his lips, his elbows digging into the table as Sherlock followed his train of thought. He always did that when he was thinking. They were back in Baker Street now, and Sherlock was on his laptop while John sat in his armchair, a book resting in his lap.

“By what?”

“What you said to Donovan before, about being Sherlock Holmes.” John replied. John knew Sherlock was acting like he didn't know; he always did that when he didn't want to face certain things. Sherlock knew he was going to ask about it when they got home, so he proceeded to lock his eyes with the screen of his MacBook once more, dismissing his husband. He really didn't want to explain, he wanted to find out for himself.

“I’ll leave you to your deductions.” He breathed as he leant forward to type lightly at the keyboard as if John wasn't there. John kept his mouth shut and left him to research whatever it was. Sherlock always got in a bad mood when John spied and pressured him. For the next 10 minutes, all that could be heard was the sonnet of tapping keys. After that, Sherlock had got up to have a shower. John heard the creaking of floorboards as the he left the room and descended down the hallway. It only took until he heard the water running from the bathroom for John to finally understand what he had meant.

_Being Sherlock Holmes? You’d be surprised._

It only just hit him how insecure Sherlock truly was. After all this time of thinking Sherlock was resilient and headstrong, he really wasn’t. It was all just an act. He didn’t want anyone to know how damaged he truly was, so he acted as if everything was okay. Inside of that genius IQ was an insecure being and an abused heart. Who knew that the strongest of people could experience the most pain? John felt a melancholy wave wash over him, his eyebrows furrowed. He didn’t want to think about what Sherlock had been doing as he shut the bedroom door after he accidentally insulted him. Self-harm? Who knows? Sherlock was always so secretive about his emotions and actions, he guarded them like his life depended on it.

_Don’t be ridiculous, John, I’m perfectly fine._

No, he wasn’t. He was the complete opposite. He can’t just not help him, he can’t bear to know his husband in some form of emotional suffering and not do anything about it.

Before John knew it, he was up on his feet looking around the flat for sticky notes. It took him a while, but he eventually found some hidden in Sherlock’s desk drawer under a mass of papers and stationary. He grabbed a pen from the table and he started scribbling things down. It wasn’t much, but it was something. He proceeded to stick them all around the flat, mostly where Sherlock spent his time or did most of his things, like on his violin and his skull or his desk. John wanted him to see every single one of them. He also wanted to get this done before Sherlock got out of the shower, so he was somewhat frantic as he was trying to find places for the small adhesive squares of paper.

John could hear the water being switched off just as he placed the last one. There were about 20 of them in total, coloured fluorescent yellow, so they could easily be spotted. But given this is Sherlock Holmes we’re talking about, he would have spotted them either way. John grabbed his book that he had before he sat back down in his armchair, opening it and began to read where he had left off.

A few moments later, Sherlock’s presence was in the living room once more. He hadn’t dried his hair as usual; droplets of water fell from the tips of his curls and dropped onto his dress shirt. Sherlock had noticed instantaneously that something was a little off, so he began scavenging around the flat looking for differences. Sherlock met eyes with the first piece of bright paper, which was attached to his skull. He peeled it off the cranium so he could read it. John watched him as his body froze up rather abruptly for the second time today.

“John?” Sherlock asked. He sounded confused as his eyes locked with the next one on his music stand. Within the span of 3 minutes he found at least half of them. He looked almost panicked, frantic. A little shock, even. What did he write on them, you ask? Encouragements. Compliments. Things that Sherlock would find uplifting.

_It’s been 6 months since you last smoked, I’m so proud of you_

_I love you so much, never forget that_

_You’re the smartest man I know_

_You’re so beautiful - inside and out_

Sherlock could feel his damp tears trickling down his cheeks once more, but not out of sadness. It was the complete opposite. Instead of suffocation, there was life. He felt as if his heart had been restarted, and in that happening his body was filled with warmth. Happiness. The sudden flood of positive emotion almost swept Sherlock off his feet. He had almost forgotten what it was like to feel whole.

“Yes?” John replied, looking up from his novel.

“Did you do this?” Of course he did you idiot, Sherlock’s brain said to him. But he pushed it away. His heart was ruling him at the moment, and he’s okay with that. Sherlock stormed up to him, which made John become a little weary, hoping silently that he didn’t do something wrong. Until Sherlock grabbed John by the collar of his shirt and pulled him up into an almost standing position and into a passionate, heated kiss. John was taken aback at first, but eventually took control of as his hands wrapped around Sherlock’s torso, his tongue slowly exploring his husband’s mouth. Before John had the chance to go further, Sherlock pulled away, pulling him into a strangling hug, as if he was ashamed.

“Thank you so much…” Sherlock mumbled, his tears slowly falling onto John’s sweater as he slowly tried to compose himself.

“Shhh, it’s okay, Sherlock – I’m here. You don’t have to say anything.” John replied, rubbing Sherlock’s back soothingly. John could almost hear whimpering coming out of Sherlock as if he was a wounded dog. He hadn't expected him to react like this. He never thought Sherlock could be so open about crying; he'd never seen him cry before until now. It was definitely a bridge that they both needed to cross.

“I’m sorry, John, I didn’t tell you sooner…” Sherlock began going off on a tangent, but John interjected.

“No, if anything I should be sorry for snapping at you like that this morning. I just…wished you were more honest with me. It’s not good to keep things from people that are trying to help you.” It took a few moments for Sherlock to reply. He had been choosing his words carefully.

“I’m always afraid that people are going to hurt me on purpose. So many people have done it to me in the past. I don’t even know who I can trust anymore.” Sherlock's eyes met the floor, ashamed. Worried that John might think badly of him after admitting his weakness. Or use it against him. People had a habit of doing that. Except John didn't.

“Remember our wedding?” John asked instead.

“How could I forget? It was the best day of my life.”

“Well, you remember our vows? How I promised to be there for you, whatever circumstance, no matter what?” Sherlock looked back up at John in confusion.

“Why are you telling me this, John?”

“Because I’m trying to make a point. That I love you, and I’ll be here for you. Always.” Sherlock didn't need a genius IQ to know that he was being sincere. He couldn’t find something to say in response, so he smiled, showing his straightened white teeth which contrasted his bloodshot eyes and pink-stained face from the crying. John rarely saw Sherlock smile, and it was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. Sherlock sniffled loudly, rubbing the tears from his eyes with the sleeves of his shirt.

"I'm sorry-" But John hadn't give him the chance to apologise fully. John quickly leaned in, their lips meeting once more, to silence him. The both of them savoured the new feeling of closeness and intimacy between them that this whole ordeal provided. A lot of people say that bad moments can draw two people closer together, and it was actually true in this case. It showed the both of them that if they can get through this, finally they can get through everything else life threw at them. It made the both of them feel strong, as if they can beat anything. They were a team. They loved each other. And no matter how hard things got, they would get through it.

Together.


	3. Accused

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the confrontation of John’s arrest, Sherlock returns to the Old Bailey to testify – only to get more than what he bargained for.

Sherlock hated courtrooms. Especially after the whole Moriarty incident.

He has done this sort of thing all the time, giving evidence and providing logical insights, but not like this. With everyone staring at you, judging you (even more so than usual), staring you down as if you were some mass murderer. Not to mention a lawyer on top of that glaring at you, waiting for you to make a mistake and pounce.

This was about John. He wouldn’t have come otherwise.

He was playing his violin by the windowsill as per usual when John was out, until his phone rung rather suddenly. It had taken him by surprise when he heard Lestrade’s voice on the other line. Once he heard him explain to Sherlock about John’s arrest, he went straight to the police station, only to find that he wasn’t allowed to give him bail. Talk to him, even. What for, he wondered. Surely it wasn’t that bad, was it? Then Lestrade told him why.

Murder.

The word was music to Sherlock’s ears, until today. To hear that John was involved in a…murder? Both you and Sherlock both know how harmless John is, unless pushed. He is an ex-soldier, after all. He’d been trained to kill, but although that he has had extensive training, it’s still not enough to lash out on someone. He has very strong moral values.

Apparently he shot someone in the chest, puncturing their heart on impact and killing them instantly. John Watson of all people.

Six months, they said. Six months until his court hearing was to occur at the Old Bailey, in the exact same courtroom, with the exact same judge, and the exact same witness box. You might as well have run Sherlock over with a train; it’s the exact equivalent of memories that are flooding back to him. He really didn’t want to be there. The amount of negative emotion that coursed through Sherlock’s veins could probably freeze time.

“Answer the question, Mr. Holmes.”

The lawyer who remains in front of Sherlock is cool in composure and professional in posture. Sherlock had been ignoring the quite direct question he had been given for quite some time now. Sherlock knew how to get out of all sorts of scenarios, but this one was going to be his first in which he couldn't. No matter how much he runs, they’ll know he’d been hiding something.

“I don’t see how see how this has anything remotely relevant to do with what I am appealing to.” Sherlock stated blankly. He had a point there. The question had nothing to do with the actual reason in which why he was called as a witness. If Sherlock had a lawyer himself, he might have gotten out of this one, but the both of them didn’t. They couldn’t afford one, and even though Mycroft offered Sherlock refused. He liked to think he could handle the world on his shoulders, even though no normal human being is able to do so.

“In order to prevent bias, Mr. Holmes, we are required to do whatever means we deem to prevent such things from occurring, are we not? I am aware of your…how may I put this, _relationship_ that you share with Doctor Watson, and in doing so I feel that your initial answers are tampering with the justice that this case has come to be. ” The second Sherlock saw this twat of a lawyer he knew he was going to be on a train to emotional hell. He knew exactly which strings to pluck to make his nerves sing. And at the rate he had been going, he played him like a piece written by Bach.

“If you don’t answer the question, Mr. Holmes, we’ll have to treat you as if you’re hiding evidence, which could result in the imprisonment of Mr. Watson, and also yourself.” The judge that was seated before them interjected rather suddenly.

“Thank you, your honour. Now,” The lawyer continued, obviously appreciating the fact that the judge was supporting his question. He knew it was going to be risky saying that, and thankfully taking that risk turned in his favour. Rather smugly, he sauntered up to the witness box swiftly in long, powerful strides, his hands clasped behind his back, the clicking of heels the only thing that can be heard throughout the giant, echoing room. Besides that, you could probably drop a human hair and would have clearly heard it hit the ground. His hair was combed back, his posture straight, a smug look on his face. Sherlock would love nothing more than to punch him in the jaw right now. The lawyer knew he had him, regardless of how little Sherlock showed on his face. “Are you or are you not in love with the accused?”

There was no getting out of this one. Sherlock looked over at John, whose wrists bound by metal handcuffs, his clothes replaced with a bright orange jumpsuit. It had been so long since Sherlock had seen him. He wished he hadn't. Seeing him like this makes him want to destroy the known universe. He had definitely been in his fair share of battles in that prison they had him rotting in until he was dragged here. He looked pale and as if he hadn't eaten properly since he last saw him at Baker Street. There was a bruise on his right cheekbone. What have they been doing to him? Sherlock refuses to think about it, it’ll just infuriate him.

“Mr Holmes, this proceeding would move a lot quicker if you just answer the question.” The judge said to the two of them rather firmly, somewhat bored of the metaphorical tennis game that the two people before him were playing. Both him and the lawyer had no idea how painful this would be to deliver. Most people would have answered no pretty much instantly. But they don’t understand. He loves him. But everyone but John himself knows nothing of it. All those times he had protected him, from the time that he had stepped off of Bart’s, to the moment he embedded a shard of shrapnel in Magnussen's skull with a bullet that left his pistol. It was all for John. He was willing to die than see him get hurt.

And John hadn't even known.

John thought he was saving his own skin – but no. Sherlock was saving John’s skin. Sherlock would rather be dead than live on this planet without him. It would be the equivalent of running out of oxygen. It would be as if he was running on empty. He was the only reason why he didn’t kill himself all those years ago. He planned on doing it the day he met John, you know. He was going to go back to his drug habit and just end it all, right there and then. There was really nothing that was stopping him anyway. Until he laid eyes on him. Who would’ve thought that he would have fallen in love with John, of all people? Ever since that moment, he'd been wanting to tell him, but he didn't know when to do so. He'd been longing so long for him to finally know.

Why did he have to confess, in front of a room of total strangers, in the name of justice? Not that he's had anything against justice, but he was hoping that he would get to say it when it was just the two of them. But things panned out a lot differently. He probably wasn’t going to say anything, anyway, knowing him. Sherlock's always been shy about personal subjects. They made him vulnerable, and that’s one of his least favourite things. It made him feel weak, useless - idiotic. It was illogical to confess your love to someone because it always ends in someone getting hurt. It rarely ever ends happily, according to him. But right now, in this moment, was the only chance he could say something like this. So it’s now or never.

“Refusal to answer this question truthfully could result in your-"

“Yes.” Sherlock said over him, his hands balled into fists by his sides. He let himself go for a moment there, and he hated it. But it had to be done. With an instant moment of composure, he repeated himself in his usual controlled manner.

“Yes.”

“Yes what?” The lawyer asked in fake curiosity. He was getting off on this, Sherlock knew it. He loved seeing him so powerless and vulnerable. What a bastard. Sherlock looked away for a moment, before recollecting his thoughts.

“Yes…I am in love with John Watson.” His eyes locked with the lawyer's as if to say, 'are you happy now?', and the response he got from him was one of content. He still had that smug expression on his face, heightened by Sherlock's confession. His victory was insured because of him now. Sherlock ignored the jury that had broken out into a commotion of hushed murmurs as his eyes left the lawyer's and focused on John. John was as frigid as ice. It was as if someone had picked up a remote and pressed pause. All John could do was stare. John kept his tongue at bay.

“Silence! We shall proceed with this hearing!” The judge roared over them all, which responded in the eerie silence that had been in the room beforehand.

Sherlock would do anything to have been in John’s position right now. He would have been too after Appledore if it wasn’t for Mycroft, and he’s thankful for it (even though he doesn’t want to admit it). The apologetic look in Sherlock’s eyes as he stared into John’s was one of pure hurt and regret, although he was glad he had gotten such a heavy burden off of his chest. But John was still totally blank, his face voided of emotion.

After Sherlock’s confession, the hearing hadn't lasted long. Thankfully, the judge took pity on them and pleaded guilty, but with a less hardened trial. 2 years, 18 months before a chance at parole. But it’ll be the longest, most difficult 2 years of Sherlock's life. I guess you could say it was karma, in a sense, because John had to live 2 years of his life thinking Sherlock was dead. And now Sherlock will finally knew what he felt, at least to an extent. Sherlock wished that he didn’t have to jump and give him all that agony, he really didn't.

Sherlock wasn’t allowed to see John afterwards. The last time he saw him was as he was being paraded off with two police officers. Apparently he was considered dangerous, funnily enough. They don’t know John like Sherlock does. Eventually though, he would be allowed monitored visits after he had settled into his new home for the next 24 months (which apparently took a month), but a phone and a glass wall were between the two of them along with another 20 inmates dotting the wall in heightened conversation. Definitely not the best place to talk about emotion. Not with criminals around, anyway.

So all Sherlock could do was wait.

2 years.

2 long years of not knowing if John even loved him back.


End file.
